Not Him
by Clara Barton
Summary: Sitting in the rain, Trowa considers his choices. Short, sad little something for Weeping Wednesdays


For Weeping Wednesdays.

_Not Him_

It was Duo who came out after him.

It was Duo who stood on the stoop, looked up at the dark, bleak sky and scowled at the rain.

It was Duo who looked around, squinting in the pale gray street lamps until he spotted Trowa across the road, sitting on the curb, knees drawn up to his chest and arms hugging them.

It was Duo who sat down beside him, close enough that their slick, wet arms pressed together and their knees bumped.

It was Duo. It was always Duo.

"You want to talk about it?"

Trowa didn't bother to respond.

Duo sighed, loud enough that Trowa could hear it over the pounding of the rain on the pavement, over the sound of his own heart painfully thudding in his chest.

"You had to know it was coming."

Trowa felt a sharp twist of anger in his gut. He wanted to punch Duo for saying those words, for being so casual about it. For knowing.

Duo made an irritated sound in the back of his throat.

"So now we're just going to be the assholes sitting outside in the rain instead of telling them congrats?"

"I said congratulations," Trowa muttered, "and you don't have to sit outside in the rain."

"Neither do you," Duo pointed out. He sighed again. "I told them we had to leave anyway - told them you have an early start tomorrow for your mission."

"I do."

"I know, that's why I said it. No need to make up a lie when the truth is so damn convenient."

Duo fell silent, and Trowa couldn't decide if he wished Duo would start talking again or stay silent.

"He won't be happy."

Duo looked over at him and Trowa watched a drop of rain roll down his forehead and along the curve of his nose.

"Probably not," Duo agreed. "Think he'd be happier with you?"

"No," Trowa said with certainty. They had been down that road before - had had that fight too many times.

Trowa knew he simply wasn't the type to make _anyone_ happy.

"So… he didn't give you any kind of head's up about this?"

"Of course not. The last time we talked was four months ago when he threw my shit out of the window." Trowa looked over at that window and he vividly remembered the day, the scene, the flush of embarrassment he felt on his face as his duffel bag and his laptop were thrown down at him. He had caught the laptop, at least. Had earned a few claps with that move from the crowd of bystanders who had gathered around.

"So all of this - it's just four months in the making?"

"No," Trowa growled, frustrated with the conversation, with Duo, with the entire world. "I wasn't the only one fucking around on the side."

"Oh."

He heard it, that miniscule thread of hurt in Duo's voice and it made him even angrier.

"So you're telling me that this whole time while you've been fucking me, Wufei and Heero were fucking too?"

"Not the whole time. Wufei found out about you last year."

"Last _year_." Duo seemed to be thinking. "He never said anything about it to me at work."

"Because he knew you didn't mean anything to me. It was just for the sex. You could have been anyone else."

"Yeah. I know. No need to remind me."

They were silent again, but Trowa knew Duo was seething, knew he was fighting against his anger and he wondered how long it would take for Duo to break.

"Well, they're moving to Mars together, Tro. My best friend and your… whatever you want to call Wufei and I'm stuck here with the guy who would just as soon fuck a guy he met on the street if he wasn't so paranoid about getting a knife in the gut."

"You aren't stuck anywhere," Trowa sighed. "You aren't stuck in the rain, you aren't stuck with me. Go to Mars with them."

"Right. That sounds like a fucking great adventure. I'll crash their honeymoon ride and just… what… dig rocks for the rest of my fucking life? No thanks, Tro."

"What else are you going to do? Blow shit up for the Preventers until you miscalculate and die?"

Duo got to his feet, the motion somehow elegant despite the rain and his sodden clothes. He glared down at Trowa, a dark, looming figure.

And then he held out his hand.

Trowa stared at his fingers.

"I know it won't mean anything."

"Yet you keep hoping that fucking me will make me care about you." Trowa accepted the hand up.

"Yeah, well, I keep hoping good shit will happen. I'm a fucking optimist. Sue me."


End file.
